Spinning Tornadoes
by abbyrose1214
Summary: After church on Sundays, his mouth tastes like burnt popcorn. [Molliarty]


After church on Sundays, his mouth tastes like burnt popcorn. She can't say why this is – perhaps some penance he pays when he admits to the priest, "Father forgive me for I have sinned. It has been one week since my last confession. These are my sins. I have committed five murders, masturbated three times, had premarital sex nine times, stole from my grandmother once, and am having impure thoughts at this moment."

There must be some law, she thinks, that the priest must alert authorities if a follower admits to murder. Though, in a world of locked doors, the man with the key is king. It helps to know the secrets and ticks of those in power. Molly Hooper wouldn't know anything about that. She's just not that kind of girl.

Despite how Jim tries to make her let him get her out of things, she still takes responsibility for her actions. When she mistakenly walks out of a store with the darling scarf she can't really afford on her own but wanted to pretend as if she might, he offers – begs her – to let him help her. He can smooth away the wrinkles of any little misunderstanding that might pop up, and her crimes, few as they are, are never even intentional. The things could get away with if she only just asked him are tempting enough alone. In a world of locked doors, the man with the key is king and his lover is queen. Long live the queen indeed.

It's one of the many perks of living the life of Jim Moriarty's significant other. Even so, she can never manage to call herself his girlfriend. The word sounds so unsophisticated in this context and Jim Moriarty doesn't have girlfriends. She is a person in his life who is more significant to him than others in his life. She is a person who regularly makes love to – with? She's never sure – him. But Jim Moriarty cares not for friends and, while she may be his little girl in bed, he ultimately sees her as nothing less than a woman; so, "girlfriend" she is not.

This is not the life her mother imagined for her. Through medical school she'd checked off a litany of "supposed to's" – supposed to graduate, supposed to support herself, supposed to hold a steady job. She fell short at supposed to find a nice man and settle down. That went out the window when Jim walked into her life, posing as a man with a questionable sexual orientation. When everything came out about his life as a criminal architect, designing million dollar schemes and getting around with offbeat identities – half of which he stole from dead men – there was no doubt that he was anything about straight. The night before he left the country, he came to her, wrapped in a wool coat because his Yves Saint Laurent suit wasn't enough to keep the cold out, and cleared any skepticism she may have had regarding his sexuality.

Until it is safe enough for him to return, he drops her telegrams. The first one surprises her. Not only had he left no indication that he was going to stay in touch, but a _telegram_. She had no idea people even used those anymore. Almost every Thursday, a new one arrives. She keeps them in a shoebox Beneath the bed, her own little tell-tale heart.

His homecoming, too, is a surprise. When the knock comes at the door, she wonders if John is coming at the request of Sherlock for some favor or other. At the front door of her apartment thin, crisp air greets her. Not long after, she discovers the yellow red-tipped rose lying on the cold concrete of the step below. A folded piece of thick, creamy paper hangs delicately from the stem as she lifts it.

_Come upstairs._

_xM_

The elegant script gave away the author of the note, had his initial not been enough of a clue. Back up the stairs she goes, slightly unnerved that he's already in her flat, probably fixing himself some tea or dissolving into her armchair with no regard from her cat, glowering at him from the pillow on the window seat. Before she reenters her domicile she thinks that the color of the rose must have some meaning because Jim Moriarty is nothing if not symbolic.

Molly hardly has time to consider the matter further. One step over the threshold and he's by her, body invading her space in the most pleasant way. He receives a hero's welcome, her arms around his neck, lipstick smudged along his jaw, all smiles and laughter and "I'm so glad you're here, safe."

He's never safe, of course, but he's not such a bastard that he won't let her enjoy the illusion for a night. Jeopardy and risk is the whole point of it all. When a man gets bored easily, what else is he supposed to do? The people at the university suggested careers of excitement – police officer, firefighter, insurance salesman. Perhaps these occupations were exciting for the dull minds of the masses. But not for Jim Moriarty. Encountering chaos isn't enough. He has to create it.

So he spends his time spinning tornadoes in bland cities and comes home to Molly when he can to tell her his stories. She engages him every time, leaning into his voice, only interrupting to kiss him and taste the cadence on his foreign tongue. They may speak the same language but there's something so much more rhythmic about his Irish accent that washes out the flat and flavorless sounds she hears from other people during the day. When he finishes reliving his adventures, they retire to bed.

She hardly believes he visited when she wakes. The only evidence of his stay rests in the empty spot on the bed next to her: a diamond Tacori necklace, glinting in the sunrise along with the wet ink on his missive—

_Loved you then, love you now, always have and always will. Stay safe._

_ xM_


End file.
